Assassin in the Greenwood hc-7 Read online

  Assassin in the Greenwood

  ( Hugh Corbett - 7 )

  Paul Doherty

  Paul Doherty

  Assassin in the Greenwood

  Prologue

  In his cold, cramped cell in the monastery outside Worcester, Florence the chronicler lifted his milky, dim eyes and stared out at the darkness beyond his cell window. How should he describe these times? Should he recount all that he had heard? Was it true for instance that Satan himself, the prince of darkness, had risen from the depths of hell with his horde of black-garbed legions to tempt and terrorise the human soul with visions from the pit? He had been told that an evil sea of demons, rumbling and boiling over the face of the earth, amused themselves disguised as snakes, fierce animals, monsters with crooked limbs, mangy beasts and crawling things. At midnight, so Florence had heard, the heavens rumbled with thunder and lightning flashed above a restless sea of heads, hands outstretched, eyes glassy with despair.

  Another monk, a member of his community, claimed to have seen a chariot speed through the sky pulled by stallions with fiery eyes and fetid breath; inside a grinning skeleton wearing a crown of brambles.

  It was a time of killing. Great Edward was in Scotland hunting down the rebel leader Wallace while in France, the silver-haired Capetian, Philip le Bel, plotted in his secret chambers beneath the Louvre Palace. He was gathering his armies, thronging the roads of Normandy with lines of men moving snakelike, cavalry, men-at-arms, archers and spearmen, pouring north to throng on France's northern borders where they waited for the order to cross into and destroy the Kingdom of Flanders.

  Florence had heard such mutterings in the refectory as Father Abbot entertained royal messengers, dusty and dark-eyed, who rode from the coast. These couriers kept the King's generals in London informed of French ships in the Narrow Seas for had not Edward prophesied that when the French fleet sailed, Philip would deliver his hammer blows against Flanders and perhaps against England's southern coast?

  In which direction would Philip's armies march first? The pope in Avignon crouched behind his throne and waited. Edward of England tossed restlessly in his soldier's bed as his mind worried at the problem. The merchants in London also waited; if Philip conquered Flanders then England's trade, the shiploads of wool sent to the looms and weavers of Ghent and Bruges, would stop summarily and fortunes would be lost. All of Europe held its breath. Chroniclers like Florence could only dip their quills and pen the direst warnings and prophecies of what might come to pass.

  In the dark streets and alleyways of Paris, which ran together in a spider's web on the far side of the Grand Pont, more practical men laid their schemes and drew up plans to discover Philip's true intentions. Sir Hugh Corbett, Edward I of England's most senior clerk in the chancery, master of the King's secrets and Keeper of the Secret Seal, had flooded the French city with his agents: merchants ostensibly looking for new markets; monks and friars supposedly visiting their mother houses; scholars hoping to dispute in the schools; pilgrims apparently on their way to worship the severed head of St Denis; even courtesans who hired chambers and entertained clients, the clerks and officials of Philip's secret chancery. Their task was dangerous for William of Nogaret, Corbett's rival at the French court, together with Philip's master spy, Amaury de Craon, waged a silent but bloody war against Corbett's legions of spies. Two English clerks had already disappeared, their disfigured corpses later washed up on the muddy banks of the Seine. Another three of Corbett's 'pilgrims' were now rotting cadavers on the great scaffold at Montfaucon. A comely courtesan, young Alisia, with silken skin and a tangle of corn-gold hair, had been brutally beaten to death in her chamber at The Silver Moon where so many of the French King's chancery clerks were accustomed to sup and drink.

  So the bloody chess game was played: pawn against pawn, knight against knight. Knowledge was the prize at stake. When would Philip give the orders to march? Where would his troops attack in Flanders? If Philip kept the advantage of surprise then all would be well, but if Edward of England got to know then so would his Flemish allies who would mass their forces against Philip's advance.

  Publicly, however, Edward and Philip were the best of friends – the closest of allies even. Edward had married Philip's silver-haired sister Margaret whilst his own son, the Prince of Wales, was to be betrothed to Isabella, Philip's one and only daughter. The French sent Edward a pair of costly silken gloves with jewels crusted around the cuff. Edward responded with a Book of Hours, each page a glorious tapestry of colour. Philip called Edward 'his dear coz'. Edward replied, sending tender greetings to 'his dear brother in Christ'. Yet in the alleyways and musty taverns, each King waged a silent war.

  In The Fleur de Lys tavern which stood on the corner of Rue des Capucines, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Corbett's manservant and ostensibly Edward's unofficial envoy to the French court, sat in the corner of the taproom with Bardolph Rushgate. A young man of indeterminate parentage and mysterious past, Bardolph, despite his boyish features and golden love-locks, was a perpetual English student, financed by the English Exchequer to visit this university or that. He was instructed not to take any degree or study the mysteries of the Quadrivium but to collect information on behalf of his masters at home. Now he leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, pretending to be much the worse for drink. Ranulf, too, acted as if in his cups, his red hair tousled, eyes half-closed, mouth slack. He had even rubbed some chalk into his white face to make himself look more pallid. To all outward appearances they were two Englishmen who found the strong wines of Paris too rich to stomach.

  'Do you think the wench can cope?' Bardolph muttered.

  'I hope so.'

  'How many are there now?'

  Ranulf looked through the fug of the noisy tavern and studied the group of relic-sellers. They seemed more interested in staring back than in selling any of the trinkets from their trays which now lay stacked on the floor beside them.

  'How many?' Bardolph repeated. 'Six,' Ranulf replied.

  His stomach churned as his hand went beneath the table, seeking reassurance from the thin, stabbing Welsh dagger stuck into his belt and the dirk at the top of his long riding boots. Once again Ranulf felt his leather sack containing a small crossbow and a sheath of bolts.

  Above them, in one of the narrow closets which the landlord grandly described as 'a chamber', Clothilde, a buxom wench with skin as dark and smooth as a grape, was earning her silver. She bounced across the battered old four-poster bed, her legs and arms wrapped round Henri de Savigny, a cipher clerk from Philip's chancery. Ranulf had been playing him for days. The French clerk, as lecherous as any dog on heat, couldn't believe his luck at finally being favoured by such a high-class courtesan when at first she had refused him. No fool, however, Henri knew the price she asked: a copy of the cipher Philip had sent to his generals on the borders of France.

  At first the clerk had refused. He even protested that he would go to Nogaret and reveal all. Bardolph Rushgate had countered that. Wouldn't the very confession be a partial admission of guilt? De Savigny had licked his thick red lips, peered once more at Clothilde's luscious bosom and reluctantly agreed in exchange for a bag of coins and Clothilde's favours free of charge. And what was the point in refusal? Henri had seen the ciphers, which had meant little to him, so how would any English Goddamn understand them? Now he was lost in his own spiral of pleasure, hands running up and down Clothilde's smooth back. He revelled in the way she thrust back her head and her jet black hair swung like some halo of passion around her, whispering and pleading that he do more.

  Clothilde looked over de Savigny's shoulder at the small roll of parchment he had tossed on the table. She didn't care a whit. Ranulf-atte-Newgate had been an
attractive prospect, and even more so with the bag of coins he had offered her. Enough silver for Clothilde to leave Paris, go back to Provence and buy a small farm or even a tavern. Men were so stupid! They'd sell so much for a single night with her. Clothilde continued her pretended gasps and whispers of ecstasy. She saw the door open and momentarily froze. Ranulf-atte-Newgate slipped like a shadow into the room. He tiptoed across, took the parchment, winked at Clothilde and left, gently closing the door behind him.

  'May we have that, Monsieur?'

  Ranulf whirled round. Two of the relic-sellers stood at the top of the stairs. One lounged against the wall chewing on a piece of straw, the other leaned against the rail of the stairs. Ranulf cursed. Somebody had betrayed them. He heard Clothilde giggling in the room behind him. Ranulf smiled and nodded his head.

  'Your sister?' he mocked. 'She sends her best regards!'

  The straw-chewer shifted and, as he did so, Ranulf smashed his fist into the other relic-seller. Straw-chewer did not have time even to lift his dagger as Ranulf, light as a cat, struck out with his own, slicing a deep gash into the side of his neck. He thundered downstairs, crashing into the taproom.

  'Run, Bardolph, run!' he yelled.

  The perpetual student needed no second bidding. Both he and Ranulf fled from the tavern before the other relic-sellers recovered their wits. Their leader shoved two of his companions towards the stairs.

  'See what's happened!' he rasped.

  The two men kicked their tinker trays aside, brought out the arbalests they had concealed on hooks beneath their cloaks and raced across the taproom and up the stairs. One of their companions was unconscious, the other dying, blood bubbling from the wound at his neck. They ignored him. One sent his boot crashing against the chamber door which flew back on its leather hinges. Clothilde and de Savigny looked up in astonishment but neither the clerk nor the courtesan had time even to protest. Nogaret's men pointed their crossbows and sent a bolt deep into each lover's neck.

  In the darkening streets below, the rest of Nogaret's men were pursuing Ranulf and Bardolph. The two English agents ran like the wind, slipping and scrabbling on the dirty cobbles.

  'Who told them?' Bardolph hissed.

  'Clothilde!' gasped Ranulf. 'Who else? She did not say who she was meeting or de Savigny would never have been allowed to enter the tavern alive. She must have told them merely that tonight we would act. She sold her favours to both camps.'

  Bardolph stopped at a corner, leaned against the wall and gasped for breath.

  'The lying bitch!' he breathed. 'I'll kill her!'

  'No need,' Ranulf answered, pushing him on. 'She and de Savigny will already be dead – as will we be soon if you don't run!'

  The two Englishmen fled deeper into the warren of alleyways. Ranulf had prepared for such an eventuality. As long as they reached the riverside they would be safe. He had the precious roll of manuscript. Others in 'Master Long Face's' service, as Ranulf secretly called Corbett, would provide safe passage to Boulogne and a ship to England.

  At first they could hear the cries of their pursuers but gradually these faded. The streets were black, the cobbled alleyways running off them shrouded in darkness. The good citizens of Paris slept. No one was about except withered, hideous beggars whining fruitlessly for alms. Ranulf and Bardolph thought they were safe. They left a street of dark, high-gabled houses and were half-way across the open square when they heard a shout.

  'There they are! In the King's name, stop!'

  Ranulf and Bardolph fled. A crossbow bolt whirled past their heads. They had nearly reached the mouth of an alleyway when Bardolph suddenly groaned, flung his hands forward and crashed to the cobbles. Ranulf stopped and ran back.

  'Don't leave me!' pleaded Bardolph. Ranulf let his hand run down the man's back and felt the cruel barb embedded at the base of his spine. 'The wound is grievous.' Ranulf looked despairingly across the square at the dark shapes hurrying towards him.

  'Then don't leave me alive!' Bardolph wept. 'Please, Ranulf, do it! Do it now!'

  He shook his sweat-soaked face and peered closer.

  'Please!' Bardolph insisted. 'They'll keep me alive for weeks!'

  Ranulf heard the slap of leather on the cobbles.

  'Look!' he hissed. 'Look over there! We are safe!'

  Bardolph painfully turned his head and Ranulf swiftly slit his throat, breathed a prayer and hurried into the shadows.

  The forest had always stood there, the trees providing a canopy to shield the earth from the sky. Beneath this veil of greenness which stretched as far as the eye could see, the forest had witnessed murder as long as it had seen man himself. First the small dark people who burnt their victims in hanging cages to atone their angry war gods or placate the great Earth Mother whose name should never be mentioned. They were replaced by more warlike men who hung their victims from oak or elm in sacrifices to Thor and one-eyed Woden. These, too, had gone to dust, supplanted by men who, though worshipping the white Christ, built temples to their own captains of power.

  The trees had seen it all: the gnarled oak, the elm with its branches stooped with age. The forest was a dangerous place, a living thing, and through its green-dappled shadows slunk masked men who knew the secret paths and where to avoid the treacherous morass. Only a fool would wander from the beaten track which wound through Sherwood Forest, either north to Barnsleydale or south to Newark and the great road down to London.

  The tax-collectors thought of the legends about the forest as they slowly moved the King's money in iron-bound chests, chained and padlocked in covered wagons, to the Exchequer at Westminster. The two tax-collectors were following a secret route, going by little used pathways and tracks so not even the local sheriff, Sir Eustace Vechey, had knowledge of their whereabouts. The convoy was protected by a small column of dusty archers and a few outriders who anxiously scanned the trees on either side for signs of ambush. It was a hot day. The sun was now high in the sky like a disc of molten gold and the soldiers sweated and cursed under their chain-mail cotes and tight-fitting iron helms. If they could only reach Newark and the safety and the coolness of the castle!

  The principal tax-collector, Matthew Willoughby, spurred his horse forward, his assistant John Spencer galloping close behind. The two men rode ahead of the column, searching the horizon for an end to this treacherous forest. All they could glimpse was a sea of green and the white dusty track.

  'At least it's empty,' Willoughby grated.

  Spencer looked back at the convoy. 'Do you think we are safe?'

  'We have to be. The King needs this money. It's to be at the Exchequer within a week and at Dover by the end of the month.'

  They stood stroking their sweat-covered horses, not waiting for the wagons to catch them up. Spencer rose high in the stirrups.

  'We will pause…'

  The rest of the sentence was lost. A long feather-tipped arrow sped out from the trees, caught him full in his soft throat and sent him retching on his own blood out of the saddle.

  Willoughby looked round in horror. Three of the escort were already down and two of the cart drivers were now a bloody mess still sitting in their seats, heads flung back, barbed arrows sticking out of chests or stomachs. There was a second volley of arrows. Some of the horsemen panicked whilst archers fell like skittles before they could even string their bows.

  'Stop!' a voice rang out from the darkness of the trees. 'Master Tax-collector,' it continued, 'tell your men to drop their weapons. Take the lead yourself.'

  One of the horsemen, braver or more stupid than the rest, drew his sword and urged his horse forward. Two arrows took him full in the chest and sent him crashing to the dust. One archer had an arrow from his quiver. He was running for cover behind one of the carts. He never reached it. An arrow, steel-pointed and a yard long, caught him full in the cheek, going in one side of his face and out the other. The man tossed and turned, giving strangled cries, sending up white puffs of dust from the forest trackway.

&nbs
p; 'Enough!' Willoughby shouted despairingly. 'Your weapons – place them on the ground.'

  He let go of the sweat-soaked hilt of his sword as a group of men, armed and hooded, dressed in Lincoln green, faces covered in black leather masks, stepped out of the trees. They moved soundlessly, like wraiths or those will-o'-the-wisps which hang above the marshes, so silent and terrible that Willoughby thought they were demons from the wild pack of Heme the Huntsman. But these were no ghosts. They were men of war, carrying sword, dagger, buckler, and each with a long bow and a quiver of arrows, either slung over their shoulders or strapped to their sides. More of them appeared at the edge of the forest. Willoughby scanned the line of trees. Forty or fifty assailants he counted anxiously to himself. God knew how many more lurked in the darkness. He chewed his lip nervously. He had how many? He looked back along the trackway; at least seven dead, only thirteen surviving. The man with the arrow through his face was still screaming. One of the outlaws moved across, grasped him by the hair and quickly slit the exposed throat.

  'Oh, Christ's sweet mother!' murmured Willoughby. 'No more deaths!' he shouted.

  An outlaw stepped forward. One of Willoughby's men suddenly plucked a dagger from his sleeve. Willoughby saw dark figures in the forest's gloaming and, before he could shout, bow strings thrummed and the unfortunate soldier slumped to the ground, choking on his death blood. The outlaw leader stepped closer.

  'Get down, Master Tax-collector.' The voice was muffled. 'Do not be so foolish as to attempt anything. The lives of what remains of your men are in your hands.'

  Willoughby wiped the sweat from his face.

  'Do as he says!' he shouted. 'No more foolishness!'

  Willoughby stared at the outlaw leader but could glean nothing about him. He was tall and had a strong northern accent but cowl and mask completely concealed his face.

  'You will follow us!' the outlaw shouted. 'Anyone who disobeys will be executed.'